And, for some odd reason, I thought it would be fun to invite a non-Italian girl to my parents' house for Christmas Eve.

I thought she might like to see how the other half lives. (And eats.) I thought our Italian traditions would make her warm all over. I thought she and my mother would hit it off like partridges and pear trees.

At first, things went relatively smoothly. We sat down to eat and my mother brought out two trays of antipasto - beautiful platters of symmetrically arranged lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, provolone and anchovies.

When I offered to make Karen’s plate, she said, “Oh, thank you! Just don’t give me any of THOSE things.”